


Intervention

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Sounding, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones is behaving really strangely.  A worried Jim tries to find out why, and gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intervention

**Author's Note:**

> Contains sounding and voyeurism/spying. Jim spies on Bones during a very intimate act without his permission, and he never comes clean about it. Brief mention of possible past underage sex. Thanks to [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/) for a small but amusing detail about Jim's childhood. Brief remembered/reported homophobic statements. Written for [this prompt](http://buckleup-meme.livejournal.com/5309.html?thread=129725#t129725) by [](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/profile)[blue_jack](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/) on the [](http://buckleup-meme.livejournal.com/profile)[buckleup_meme](http://buckleup-meme.livejournal.com/).

“Friend of yours?” Jim says, peeling himself away from the wall on which he’s been so artfully leaning while waiting for Bones to get off shift.

Bones freezes in the act of waving a cheery good-bye to the little old lady he escorted out of the clinic with him. “Huh?”

“That lady. You seemed friendly. Someone from back home?”

Bones shrugs. “Never seen her before in my life. Just a patient. Now, you wanna eat, or what?”

Just a patient? Not convinced he’s buying that. “Um, sure. Where we heading?”

Bones swats him twice on the ass to get him moving, which startles Jim into a weird little squeaking sound because it’s just so unexpected. Not that people don’t try to get their hands on Jim’s excellent ass in all ways and at all hours, it’s just that… Bones doesn’t.

“Arty’s,” Bones says jovially, leading the way with a definite fucking _spring_ in his step. “My treat.”

_Who are you, and what have you done with my Bones?_

“Um, you feeling all right, man?”

“Wonderful,” says Bones, which just fucken _proves_ it.

Jim keeps a weather eye on him all evening, because, clearly, the dude’s about to snap.

Later, sprawled out on Bones’s couch because the good doctor let him drink faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar too much, man, Jim reflects dizzily on the signs of looming McCoy acopalil—apocalypse to whit—to which he’s been witty—witness tonight, making a clever bulletpointy list in his head:

  * Jim ordered a steak. It was yumtastic. And? There was no lectern—lecture about Red Meat and How You Don’t Need It, Jim, or even about Chemicals that Might Be Added to Your Meat and You’ll Never Be the Wiser Until you Wake up ONe mOrning DEAD.
  * Also, Bones had the steak, too. He did have the side salad instead of fries like normal peoples, but he _did_ steal fries off Jim’s plate from time to time.
  * Bones made polite convolute—converts—Bones talked about shit without needing to be prodded. And some of the shit was his own _personal_ shit.
  * Bones did not visibly keep count of how many times Jim refilled his wine glash. Which is probably why Jim doesn’t quite know exactly or precisely or even in the general ballpark (should go to a ballpark, bet Bones is a fucking _lethal_ picture—pitcher, man) how much wine he’s had tonight.
  * Bones convinced Jim to get dessert when he’d only meant to get coffee because ordering dessert generally inspired a lecture on how You’ll Not Be Young and Skinny Forever, Jim, You Need to Take Care of Your Health for the Future.
  * Bones let Jim crash unmolested on his couch, not an anti-hangover hypospray in sight. Actufully, that one could go either way, ask him in the morning whether it was a mercy or not.



In short, Your Honour, McCoy meltdown imminent. Quod erat demonstrandum and shit.

 _Oh, well_ Jim thinks, smooshing his face against the back of the couch and beginning to snore even before he’s asleep, _let’s worry about that in the morning…_

***

The dog that guards the mouth of Hades or whatever? Jim wakes feeling as if he’s generously offered to take on all three of its headaches. And also as if he’s taken up sucking his thumb again, only it’s a thumb made of old smelly socks that may or may not have belonged to him. He groans, hoping for the sympathy of any passing hominid or, at least, a bit of a whack to the back of the head to knock out all this brain snot he seems to have accumulated.

“Oh, you’re awake,” says a voice.

Jim blinks his eyes open with an effort or eight. “Hello, Bones.” The vowel sounds echo alll around the room and back again to punch him in the face. Drinking, man. He needs to rethink the whole process.

The apocalypse may not be quite as impending as all that, as it turns out. Bones is looking quite his usual self, sort of glaringly baleful and in need of both coffee and a shave. “Lemme guess, Jim, you’d like that hypo now?”

Jim is entirely ambivalent on that point. Hangovers suck, but so does sharp needly pain. And being in Bones’s debt. And having to think or move or speak. “Meh,” he manages, 100% perfectly non-committal.

Bones, who is perched on the edge of his bed, continues polishing his already painfully shiny boots.

***

By that evening, Bones is pretty much back to his usual self and all’s well with the world. Jim figures it was just an unfortunate conjugation of planetary aspects or something that caused the waking nightmare of a perky, polite Bones. Perhaps if Jim’s very, very good and collects only good karma for the foreseeable, the horror will never, ever be repeated.

***

It’s repeated. About a month later, Bones transforms overnight from evil on wheels with ready access to scalpels and the brains to make the mystery of your death go forever unsolved, man, to a well-spoken gentleman who only uses his sinister powers of snark for good, kisses puppies, picks flowers, and is kind to all his fellow men, tra la la.

Jim’s beside himself with worry.

Bones has got to be doing some serious drugs and shit, there’s just no other explanation. And Jim’s seen what hard drugs can do to a man, how they can hollow him out and leave nothing left, nothing to hope for, nothing to care about. He’s lost friends to that kind of fate. Well, one friend, but one is too fucking _many_.

There’s only one thing for it. He needs to gather all the relevant information and evidence so he can get Bones to see reason and, if that doesn’t work _fucking damn fast_ , to get Bones some help whether he likes it or not. And no one ever _does_ like it, right?

Obviously, he’ll have to stake out Bones’s place, follow him around a bit, go through his things, that kind of schtick.

Fortunately, Jim has some experience with this sort of stuff.

***

In the weeks that follow, Jim acquires a bunch of possibly meaningful but currently useless facts.  


  1. Leonard McCoy, on one of his ‘up’ days, can coax a terrified cat out of a tree. _And_ he can return it to its owner and graciously accept her hysterical thanks without feeling the need to lecture on _the god-damned irresponsibility of letting your juvenile feline out unattended_ or even _Don’t let it lick your face, lady! Don’t you know how many damn diseases you can get from a domestic animal?_ Admittedly, she _is_ hot and she _is_ outside at 0620 on a foggy, cold San Francisco morning wearing a bathrobe that doesn’t really cover her sheer lingerie all that well… (Jim’s distracted enough that Bones nearly manages to lose him immediately after this.)
  2. Leonard McCoy can be persuaded to give tired colleagues’ shoulders a good hard mauling in the cafeteria after a long stint in the OR.
  3. It is not, apparently, entirely counter to the laws of the universe for Leonard McCoy to walk onto a training shuttle without any obvious signs of panic or even discomfort. Must be some seriously good shit he’s on. (Don’t think about that, Jimmy. Drugs are bad. Drugs are comm calls from mother in the middle of really awesome sex with the gym teacher.)
  4. Leonard McCoy can actually dance instead of just propping up the bar looking grumpy and downing Tennessee Whiskey like an unsatisfied connoisseur.
  5. Leonard McCoy subscribes to twelve boring medical journals and five that aren’t boring for various reasons mainly having to do with sex, weird aliens, or sex involving weird aliens. Some of the journals have tasteful illustrations, and some of the aliens in the illustrations are green.
  6. Leonard McCoy’s mother is still living, and she’s moderately hot and decidedly suspicious about “what a very attractive young man might be doing skulking about my son’s quarters at two o’clock in the afternoon”.
  7. Leonard McCoy keeps his sex gear in an old medical kit case thing. There’s lube (three kinds, two medical, none flavoured), condoms, cockrings (one _vibrating_ ), a dildo or two Jim immediately writes off as beginner’s gear… and a _locked box_. It has a twelve digit electronic combination lock—nothing Jim can’t break, given time, but unfortunately this is the moment at which Jim learns that
  8. Leonard McCoy doesn’t have that Bolian anatomy lab at 1400 on Tuesdays anymore, apparently.



The bathroom is a terrible hiding place, Jim decides, and so gives up on that plan and elects to take a leak as loudly as possible, whistling, just to make sure Bones knows that he’s there and he’s not, you know, hiding out to see what Bones gets up to when he thinks he’s alone or anything.

“Your mom rang,” he says helpfully, when Bones pops in to roll his eyes at him and mutter something about respect for other people’s property and Jim not having any. Clearly, Bones hasn’t had his fix today. Good. Perhaps he’s trying to cut back? Jim makes it a point to hug him once he gets out of the bathroom—can’t tell him why, but maybe he’ll come to associate awesome Jimful closeness with those days he doesn’t partake of the nasty?—and Bones grills him over whether or not he washed his hands properly. Jim grins and fights the urge to do a tiny little victory dance for Bones and abstinence.

***

Things seem to have been improving. It’s been at least a month since Bones last made cookies for a particularly well-behaved patient or called his mom just to tell her he loved her, but all the same, Jim can’t resist when he sees a neat little package of high-tech spy cameras at a street market while he’s out on weekend liberty.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to be sure?

If he wires up Bones’s place for, say, a couple weeks, and sets up a little program on a padd to monitor and flag particular kinds of activity for Jim’s attention—well, if he catches Bones in the act of snorting or injecting or otherwise taking dope of any kind, he’ll be able to get him some help, right? And if Bones is off the shit, well, he won’t catch anything, will he, and then there’ll be no harm done, yes?

***

Jim does not catch what he expects. At all. Like, not even close.

It happens like this:

Jim is a) bored, b) alone in his dorm room for once (fuck, his room-mates are total pricks with an average age of eighteen and a half and a lot less emotional maturity than that would suggest, and, yes, he’s aware of the profound absurdity of him calling kids who didn’t have to be dared to join Starfleet immature), c) all caught up with his classwork, d) dateless, e) curious, f) disinclined to leave his comfortable sprawl across the lowest bunk right now, and g) in possession of the padd that hooks up to the cameras he planted in McCoy’s room. These facts combine to lead him to events h) switching to the monitoring software to find that i) Bones really hasn’t been doing all that much in his rooms lately besides sleeping, using the head, storing several bottles of bourbon and making the occasional comm call. This leads to Jim k) idly checking out the live feed, l) finding that Bones is, in fact, present in view of one of the cameras at this very moment, just exiting the bathroom, in fact, in his bathrobe which for some reason is cut only to the thigh and thus shows a nice amount of pleasantly hairy man-leg. m) Bones sits down on the bed, legs spread comfortably wide, so that Jim can almost see— n) Bones reaches down under the bed and brings up the tatty old case with his sex toys in it. As Jim watches, he withdraws one of the cute little bottles of fancy sterile lube he favours, and then the locked box, into whose touch-sensitive surface he taps out his code. The lid pops open. So, with one careless yank of Bones’s other hand, does the bathrobe. And—

 _Oh._ Leonard McCoy has a beautiful big dick, yes sir. And it’s very much up for some attention. Just looking at it makes Jim’s mouth water. He, um, yeah, he _does_ still need to be watching this, because… because Bones might be going to jerk off _while doing drugs_. And, yes, it would be embarrassing for all concerned if his only evidence that Bones was doing drugs was video of him with his dick in his hand, but he needed to know so that—

What the fuck is that thing?

It’s all long and shiny and Bones gazes at it with a sort of longing look.

Um, okay. Now Jim isn’t sure whether to beat off or do some research. Bones has pulled out a field steriliser and is making sure—with slightly shaking hands, Jim notes—that the smooth metal rod is sterile. It takes a while. In fact, by the time Bones is done mucking around with the sterile field and then lube—a fuckload of lube—his erection has basically wilted. Which does not appear to bother Bones in the slightest as he grabs hold of his dick and begins actually inserting—

Jesusfuck _god_.

Jim’s breath is coming quick and shallow. He can’t take his eyes off the little padd screen, he even zooms without losing his focus on Bones and the Bonester. Bones is—Bones is—-

Bones is sort of holding the rod still and massaging his cock up to meet metal so that the thing’s curved tip slides, little by little, into Bones’s slit. He’s not even pushing it, it’s just sort of slipping in under its own weight, like it wants to get to know him.

And Jim remembers that these cameras also capture audio just in time to tap the appropriate icon and hear Bones let out a whine of combined frustration and almost unbearable pleasure that has Jim just about coming in his shorts.

Mother _fucker_. Whatever the fuck Bones thinks he’s doing, it’s clearly total bliss for the man. Jim’s just the tiniest bit jealous, he’ll admit. As he watches, Bones’s dick swallows more and more of the—what? Tool? Toy?— _thing_ , and he makes more and more noise in response, until eventually he’s leaning back on one hand with his dick stuffed full and hardening up again, wearing an expression of complete rapture as he stares down at his handiwork, gently stroking his dick with a couple of fingertips while holding onto the end of the rod.

Jim gives in and gets out his cock. As he strokes, he can’t keep from worrying his slit with his thumb, unable to imagine how it must feel to stick something right in there but, yeah, distinctly fucking intrigued with the notion that Bones knows and Bones _likes_ it.

“Look at that,” Bones mutters, startling Jim. “Just fucking _look_ at that.” It’s The Voice, the dirty, aroused Bones voice, which Jim hasn’t heard before but recognises immediately. That’s what Bones would sound like if they were rolling around naked together. The thought makes him shiver and tighten his grip.

“Goddamn slut,” Bones mocks himself savagely, head thrown back now, hand working to move the metal rod carefully up and down inside him. He is _fucking_ his _cock_ with a _metal thing_ , man. It’s just about the weirdest insanely sexy thing Jim’s ever seen.

Then, all at once, it’s as if Bones can’t take any more, and he slides the thing back out again. It’s barely out, he’s only got in two, maybe three furious jerks of his fist over his cock before he comes with a deep groan that seems to make the world tremble.

Jim is mere seconds behind him. It’s an intense fucking orgasm and it takes a while to get unstupid again afterwards, by which time Bones has put away his kit and disappeared into the bathroom. Jim cleans himself up with a handy regulation sock. On the padd screen, Bones returns, bathrobe once more demurely fastened, and sprawls across his bed with the apparent intention of catching some shut eye. He’s wearing a truly beatific smile.

 _Huh,_ Jim thinks. _Possibly not on drugs, then. Perhaps he was just… happy? Who knew?_

***

It really wasn’t hard to find out everything he ever wanted to know—and some things he didn’t—about what Bones was up to. Which was _sounding_. The metal thing was a sound, and Bones likely had several in different sizes. They were antique medical equipment, no real call for them now in the professional setting. Well, not unless, Jim supposes, you’re a rather different kind of professional. Which might be interesti—

_Pay attention, Jimmy. This lock won’t pick itself._

But, despite his best efforts, Jim stays pretty damn distracted, which is probably why he’s still coaxing the electronic lock on Bones’s box of tricks to open for him and is far from ready to begin the planned artful-naked-posing-with-sounds-in-order-to-demonstrate-approval-of-sounds, when Bones comes in the door and stops to stare at him, all agape and shit.

“Um, hi, Bones,” Jim says brightly, just as he gives the touch-pad one last tap and the lock makes the telltale popping sound that means it’s undone.

Bones takes one measured step forward, enough that the doorway registers as empty and the doors swish closed behind him. He looks a mite pissed.

Maybe not the best time to stick his hand in the box. Perhaps the getting naked should have been the _first_ thing he did, to guarantee the sight of something beautiful to compensate for any, you know, embarrassed-about-sexy-personal-kink or angry-at-invasion-of-privacy type feelings? He makes do with getting up off the bed and sidling over to Bones, who’s gone all stoic and statue-y and isn’t even trying to fend him off. Jim grabs the back of his neck anyway, to hold him still for a kiss he hopes will paint a thousand dirty pictures. Bones remains all stoic and statue-y. Not a reaction Jim’s used to, but, hey, he’s adaptable, that’s kinda the whole reason he’s here at Starfleet. He envelops Bones in a hug—okay, there might be feels being copped hereabouts, but it is still nominally a hug, that’s his story and he’s sticking to it—and doesn’t think too hard about which words to whisper because that’s hardly the Jim Kirk Way.

“Your sex stuff kinda sucks, man. Except what’s all locked up. No handcuffs, no leather, no dildos you could actually hurt someone with?” That didn’t come out quite how he meant. Moving on. “Still, I didn’t even know you were kinky and shit. Hell, I wasn’t sure you liked men. I mean, you seemed to be resisting even my tremendous charms.”

That wins him a snort of amusement. But Jim doesn’t need Starfleet’s classes in strategy and leadership to get that he’s gonna have to give Bones some time here, because Bones is _not_ reacting like Jim would, he’s a think—or feel—first type, not a leap-first-look-afterwards type. So he squeezes that ass, kisses Bones once more and draws away.

“I gotta study. But you know where I am if you need what I got.” He resists the urge to palm his crotch, but from the nature of the eye-roll he suspects Bones takes it as read.

***

Bones avoids him for five whole days. Jim’s not discouraged because, well, Jim’s undiscouragable, ask Uhura, ask anyone. It’s in the genes. He just goes on as usual, reporting for PT as required, going to class, hanging out with the boys, suffering through occasional bouts of unavoidable homework, and just generally having a life. And, lo, on the sixth day a text message is received:

_Kinda quiet around here without you, asshole. L.H.M_

Jim grins and decides that’s invitation enough to stop by Bones’s room after class. He brings supplies (beer, pizza, porn, textbooks) and barges in before Bones can decide what to say.

“Hello, yourself,” mutters Bones.

They eat and talk. Well, Jim talks. Bones grunts at appropriate intervals. Most of his grunts can be divided up neatly into the ‘agreeing’ and ‘you’re an idiot’ categories, but there’s also an indeterminate grunt that features periodically which Jim suspects is mainly intended to let him know that Bones hasn’t _quite_ dropped dead of boredom yet. Really, he’s like the Platonic ideal of a buddy. Where has this guy _been_ all his life?

They’re done with the pizza and well into the beer before Bones actually speaks. “I do indeed like men,” he says, as if it’s not at all weird to pick up the thread of a sorta-kinda-conversation they were not quite having last week. “I also like women. Not big on the casual sex thing, though. I can meet those needs just fine on my own.” He tips his head back to drain the last of the beer from his bottle. Jim watches his throat work and wonders idly how Bones feels about hickies.

“Okay,” Jim says, squiggling forward on the couch cushion to he can sprawl more conveniently while simultaneously getting a better angle to admire Bones from. “Thing is, though—you, me—” he points the neck of his bottle at Bones and then back at himself “—this is a relationship. Quite a sturdy one, too.” He smiles. Mainly to himself, since Bones is staring moodily at his old, worn, holey, hand-knitted socks. “You’re going to have to do a lot more than just get yourself assigned to some boring research station on a boring rock if you wanna get rid of me.”

“You gonna reach any kind of point here, Jim? Because I wasn’t planning on spending what are allegedly the best years of my life—”

“The point is, we’re going to be friends forever. I’ve decided. That’s that. Done, finito, no argument. Fact. Friends. For. Life. Now tell me how adding sex to that’d make it _casual_.”

Bones opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Does the confused, dogfighting-eyebrows thing.

Jim grins, swigs his beer, and rechecks his calculations about when the jumping should occur and whether Bones should be the jumper or the jumpee.

***

It’s summer vacation. Jim has a whole friggen _week_ before he has to be back on campus doing the summer school thang that’s so crucial to his _Graduate From Academy, Become Awesome Officer Kirk In Three Fucking Years, Not Four, So Suck it, Pikey_ plan. So, as with every summer since he can remember, he’s in Iowa with a whole mental list of chores to be done. Nowadays, it’s not sullen childish cooperation in exchange for extra allowance, it’s sense of… not duty, exactly. More that he doesn’t want Mom coming home, whenever she happens to come home, to find broken screen doors or leaky rooves or a food machine that only makes cheese sandwiches. So here he is, hot afternoon, baggy teenage Jim jeans that aren’t baggy any more, oh, no, lookin’ mighty fine there, Jimbo, shirt off and tied around his waist, sweating in the hot sun while he attacks antique window shutters with even more ancient hand tools.

And Bones watches, idly swaying in the creaking porch swing.

Away from the academy, on leave from his doctorly duties, he seems like a different man. Quieter. More relaxed, but not in that I-got-high-on-medical-equipment-last-night kinda way.

And it’s fucking hilarious how he doesn’t even bother offering to help, like he doesn’t trust Jim to tell him to forget it. Still, Jim’s not picky about his house-guests; it’s been too long since he had any, or anywhere to put them.

He finishes up with the window, decides that’ll do for now. This is already task number four for this afternoon, and any paint job he attempts now is sure to be half-assed. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe the roof tomorrow. Or the downstairs shower that—despite being (relatively) new and electronically-controlled, is the only one in the house not functioning perfectly. Possibly it just likes spiting people by producing only cold water however nicely you ask.

Bones stretches out a leg, slides an unopened beer along the porch with his foot so Jim can grab it even as he’s climbing the steps.

“Thanks, man.” He sits and sprawls by his buddy. Huh. Has this seat shrunk, or what? Had his first kiss on this thing, aeons ago. “So, how’d you like Riverside?”

Bones shrugs. “It’s a place.”

Jim almost snorts his beer. “They should put that on the sign. _You are now entering Riverside, Iowa, population 1204. Riverside: It’s a place._ ”

There’s an odd silence, as if Bones wants to say something and can’t make it happen. Then there’s an arm around Jim’s waist and Bones is stroking his side with his fingertips in a way that probably should be ticklish but is actually a bit more interesting than that. He takes another swig of beer, wipes his mouth on his wrist, puts the bottle down. Turns to look at Bones.

Who is staring at him, brown eyes bright, the faintest hinty smile playing about his lips.

“Hi,” Jim breathes.

Bones closes the distance between them and kisses him, hard.

_Allrighty, then._

Bones has great lips. Jim plays with them, nibbles, licks, brushes. Bones clearly wants something a bit more aggressive, and it’s amusing Jim to tease instead.

Eventually, though, Bones physically starts to squirm and Jim takes pity.

“I need a shower,” he says, almost into Bones’s mouth “You wanna—?”

Bones mutters a string of expletives worthy of some old cartoon character, and Jim seriously considers just letting Bones blow him out here on the porch. But he _does_ have a lot of hard work to scrub off his skin, and he _does_ have an eager volunteer—well, perhaps not _eager_ and perhaps not exactly _volunteering_ , but you know what he means—to wash his back. He gets up, hauls Bones by the wrists up after him, kicks over a beer by accident and can’t quite bring himself to give a flying fuck.

***

Bones looks fucking _excellent_ naked. Not that Jim’s surprised, he’s just… appreciative. And it feels fucking fantastic to press him back against the tiles, rub slick skin over slick skin. The hot spray—such luxury after life in a Starfleet Academy dorm—and the scent of the exotic shampoo Jim’s mom keeps for guests evoke images of some tropical rainforest, hot and damp and rich with the brightness of strange orchids, almost glowing in the deep forest shade, releasing their foreign, heady fragrance into the humid air… and they’re all alone in this private world, Jim and his Bones.

“Hey, Bones?”

Bones grips his shoulders harder and keeps on grinding into him. “What, Jim?” He’s trying to sound annoyed, but it comes out mainly breathless.

“When was the last time you got fucked?”

He groans, shakes his head. “Too. Damn. Long. Ago. Why, you think you can handle—”

“I _know_ I can handle.”

Bones goes still and gets this look, like… all assessing and shit. Then he scans the various bathroom fixtures. “Give me five minutes with the sonics.”

Every man knows what that means. Jim shoves his head under the spray to get rid of any last traces of lather, then leaves Bones to it, grabbing a towel on his way out. He gives himself a quick rub dry and then goes looking for lube. This is going to be _magnificent_.

***

It’s been a while since Jim’s defiled Frank’s old bed with anyone, but it’s still a huge thrill, he finds. An entirely suitable ‘fuck you’ to a man who’d spent years making Jim feel that his sexual desires made him less than human. After Frank left, that big bed had been left standing idle. So Jim, whom Frank had called a slut, made love to his virginal teenage girlfriend Ruth there. They’d been together two years already. And when Ruth had moved halfway across the world to do inspiring things at a world-renowned university (that means _amicable parting_ , thanks, Frank), well, Jim had fooled around with guys there to everyone’s delight, and the memories of Frank calling him a faggot had begun to seem funny, the vitriol of a pathetic man who couldn’t be happy unless he was making others miserable.

So here he is, recalling Frank’s promise that Jim’d never love anyone, that no one would ever love him, and waiting for Bones. And that isn’t funny, but it’s so, so good. Fuck you, Frank, you fucker.

There’s footsteps in the hallway, and then Bones walks in looking like a man on a fucking _mission_. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try for kisses, he just lies down on his back beside Jim and hauls his legs up to expose his hole. Bones’s plan is quite clear. They are all done with the foreplay, thanks muchly. Jim fumbles the lid of the lube in his haste, recovers, slicks up his fingers and gets to work. Bones sighs at the feeling of the first finger pushing in, as if Jim’s massaging away years’ worth of built-up tension. He groans at the second, swears at the third.

Jim rubbers up for ease of clean-up and so they don’t have to have the conversation. Then more lube, and he’s arranging himself over Bones, guiding his dick in with one hand, and it’s…

“ _Yeah_ ,” he says, emphatically, as various Bonesy arms and legs embrace him, pull him in deeper. Bones is tight, but he seems to know his limits, and it’s not long before they can really start moving. He bends low so they can suck face a bit, and it’s good, it’s really fucking good. Hot, strong limbs around him, tight heat around his dick, those lips on his, that _tongue_. He whines as he finds his rhythm, hard and deep and just slow enough to be maddening, to make Bones pull at his hair, scratch down his back with short surgeon’s fingernails, buck beneath him in perfect counterpoint to his thrusts.

Then Bones bites his lip and it _hurts_ , and Jim starts to get a little mean, a little forceful, as he gazes, panting, into those dark eyes. Bones leers and somehow manages to slap Jim’s ass pretty damn hard, which he’s pretty sure ought to be impossible in their current set-up but he’s not about to stop and draw scale diagrams to check, so he just growls, pins Bones’s arms as best he can, and fucks harder. Bones mewls like an injured animal, then wriggles and _laughs_ and, oh, God, Jim thinks he’s in love. He forgot to turn on the air-conditioning in here and it’s hot and stuffy and they’re working hard and now he’s sweating again, he can feel it, but Bones smells good and clean and wonderful and _fuck_ it, he’s close already.

“Don’t come,” he warns Bones, and his voice comes out all commanding and salute-worthy. “Don’t you fucking come. I want you in my fucking mouth after this.”

Bones bucks up hard, like he can’t help it, but his gaze is fixed intently on Jim’s face. “Hurry then,” he says. “Hurry.”

Jim kisses him, comes, hard, kissing him, groaning low and dirty while Bones, whose tongue is fucking him with a vengeance, continues to stare deep into his soul.

It’s _intense_. There aren’t words. It's _disturbing_ , that’s how intense it is. Like he could get lost in it. Like he could drown. Like, if this is how it is with Bones, only their _first_ attempt, probably no one else will ever do for him ever again.

 _Christ._ Has he fallen hard, or what? But he lifts his head from Bones’s neck where it’s been resting, sees his lover’s unaccustomed, slightly twitchy smile, and everything’s just fine in Jim Kirk’s world. He grins, dismounts carefully, deals with the mess. Then he shifts, lowers his mouth to Bones’s cock, licks up the precome, then swallows that beautiful big thing down. Well, okay, so it takes him two attempts to get more than the head in his mouth, but he’s motivated. He manages. Then he sticks some fingers up Bones’s hole for a bit of added jolly while he goes to town on suction.

“Fuck,” says Bones, and it’s The Voice. Jim’s flaccid dick quivers in a sort of groinal thumbs-up. “Fuck, yeah.”

Jim hums happily and alternates between stroking the base of the shaft with his free hand and trying to get the whole thing in him, slurping as loudly as possible all the while because, well, he doesn’t know about Bones, but _he_ finds the noises exciting.

“God, Jim, that’s—” Movement on the mattress. Jim looks up awkwardly to find that Bones has propped himself up on an elbow so he can see what Jim’s up to. Inwardly, Jim preens. He also sucks harder. “That’s it, like that, yeah, please let me—Jim, _please—_ ”

He doesn’t make much sense after that, but listen to Jim not complaining. This is the best blowjob ever. Well, this year, at any rate.

And then he remembers watching Bones with his sounds, and eases off a bit so he can tease at the cock slit with his tongue, curling his fingers the best he can towards Bones’s p-spot for good measure.

Bones loses it. In a swearing, whimpering, you’ll-lose-count-of-the-pulses kinda way.

Jim swallows, sharp and salt-sour and Bones.

_Awesome._

If he’s wearing a smile that can only be called smug when he falls asleep curled against a naked Bones, Jim thinks he can be forgiven.

***

“So, I have a couple questions for you,” Jim says, over his plate of bacon and eggs at the shitty local diner next morning, because he figures he needs a) a neutral location and b) a table between them for this conversation, just to be on the safe side. “They may make you want to bash my head in a little bit, in different ways.”

Bones gives him a seriously suspicious look, which is all the more impressive for the piece of french toast sticking out of his mouth. But he doesn’t bother to remove the food so he can speak, or even take the equally effective option of making threatening gestures with his fork, so Jim decides he has permission to proceed.

“Firstly, sounding.”

Bones can be heard to swallow loudly. Jim pauses a moment to be sure that toast isn’t trying to murder him or anything. Bones is so _careful_ about things; it would suck if his eventual death certificate listed his cause of death as asphyxiation by foodstuff or whatever.

Not choking? Oh, good.

“Next time, I’d like to watch. Watch and learn, really. I thought, maybe one day—” He shrugs. “Well, at any rate, I’d like to watch.” _Again_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say, on account that he doesn’t want to die horribly in Riverside fucking Iowa, man.

Bones seems to be chewing incredibly slowly, like he’s deliberately dragging out the hours until Jim gets to hear his fate.

“All right,” he says at last. “Just so long as you’ll abide by the safety protocols I lay down.”

Jim nods twenty-three times in just over three seconds. He doesn’t offer Scouts’ Honour, because this town—hell, this _diner_ —is full of folks who will quite happily inform Bones that little Jimmy Kirk was politely invited never to join the Scouts after attending one disastrous session with his older brother when Frank couldn’t be assed babysitting him.

“Your other question?”

Jim gulps rather loudly from his milkshake, gets an evil look from Bones who, apparently, heartily disapproves of milkshakes, and feels better able to continue. “I don’t want you to answer this one yet, okay? I just want to put it out there.” Bones puts down his knife and fork and does the I’m All Ears look, which only makes Jim more nervous. He scuffs his feet under the table, until he accidentally kicks one of Bones’s feet and thinks better of it. “I wondered how you’d feel about matching tattoos. You know, instead of rings. That’s all.”

It takes a supreme force of will to keep watching for reaction. There isn’t one for a long, long time. Then Bones returns to his food, shaking his head slowly back and forth. He’s hiding a smile. This, plus the fact that Jim’s balls are still intact, hanging out a bit to the left in yet another awesome pair of jeans he pulled out of his old wardrobe, can be taken as a good sign, he decides.

This may be the best week-long summer vacation _ever_ , man.

***END***


End file.
